Champion
by ReaperRain
Summary: A visit from the Hero of Kvatch turns into a realisation: he doesn't even know the man's name. Ocato and OMC, more friendship than romance.


Written because Ocato doesn't appear in nearly enough stories for my liking; does no-one love the official seat-warmer of the Emperor? I love the major Oblivion characters as much as the rest of you, but someone needs to pay attention to the less important people in the game.

I've made the Hero of Kvatch male, but this isn't slash, I promise – unless you really, and I mean _really_ look for it. I actually wouldn't mind making a multi-chaptered fic of this (which _would_ be slash, as I only write oneshot het) but that's not gonna happen for a while.

I blame Ttroy for inspiring this with her (his? Not sure) Khajiit-centric comic on DeviantART. Those who've seen it know exactly which panel of the comic I'm talking about.

**Disclaimer:** Elder Scrolls: Oblivion does not belong to me. Which I don't protest in the slightest, because Bethesda did an incredible job.

* * *

Champion

Now being a High Chancellor was a difficult job at the best of times – always things to do, people to see, paperwork to sign. The end of the Oblivion crisis should have brought peace, and yet the provinces were more unsettled than ever, tempers flaring and arguments aplenty. And he, as the de facto ruler of Tamriel in the Emperor's – possibly permanent – absence, was the one who had to hold it all together, to stop everything from dissolving into chaos.

Having the Champion of Cyrodil frequently fall onto his lap was _not_ helping matters in the slightest.

"Aaaaaaaa...."

He gave a barely audible sigh, moving his paperwork and inkwell out of the way; something he had learned to do the hard way after one particular incident, one particular stack of ink-ruined papers, and one particularly upset scribe who had to write them all out again.

"AaaaaAAAAA..."

Then there was a few days ago, where he hadn't been quick enough – he'd managed to rescue the paperwork but not the inkwell, which had subsequently spilt all over his favourite robes. He'd have thought the rant that followed would have been enough to put the Champion off visiting him via free-fall, but apparently not so. Then again, he supposed persistence was a trait befitting a hero.

"AAAAA_OW!_"

Lo and behold, his desk found itself occupied by flailing, shrieking, cursing Dunmer. He didn't bat an eyelid, reaching again for his workload now that the immediate danger had passed, and continuing as though someone falling from a few hundred feet in front of him was a common occurrence. The sad things was, that statement happened to be true.

"Champion," he said in a tone that was no longer surprised, but torn between amused and faintly exasperated, "what can I do for you today?"

The Champion lifted his head, and flashed the same endearingly crooked grin he gave each time this happened; "Just thought I'd say hello."

"The front door is over there," Ocato pointed out, as he always did despite the knowledge that he would see him again soon enough, under the same circumstances, "you could just walk in, you know. You don't have to climb to the top of White Gold Tower every day and jump down."

"Ah, but if I entered through the front like everyone else, you would turn me away like you do all your other visitors." He had a point, since Ocato was simply too busy to see anyone unless they had made an appointment a few months prior. It was difficult to turn someone away when they arrived via vertical means, however. "And if you did _that_, I wouldn't be able to give you your present."

"Present?" He looked up then, intrigued. He received gifts quite frequently, of course, from other political figures and social climbers – to flatter and get into his favour, always with an ulterior motive in mind. Presents for the _High Chancellor_, but very rarely for _him_. "What's the occasion?"

"An apology. For getting ink all over your robes last time," the Dunmer held out the hand he had, until now, kept enclosed in a tight fist, "here."

Ocato blinked in a decidedly confused fashion at what was being offered to him: a handful of bare and rather pitiful-looking green stalks; "Champion...not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but...what are they, precisely?"

"Huh? They're fl-" he looked down and realised his bouquet of flowers had been reduced to petal-less stems in the long fall down. "-Oh. Well, they _were_ flowers. Should've put them in my cuirass, maybe..."

"It's the thought that counts," the Chancellor sighed, accepting the somewhat lacklustre gift and setting the stalks aside, "so how did you get past security this time?"

"Superior sneaking and some ridiculously useful spells. You stepped up security again, though. Harder locks, more guards," his expression turned from thoughtful to cheerful, grin suggesting he was not offended in the slightest, "I'd almost think you don't want me here, Chancellor."

"I could have worse company, but I don't appreciate my work being interrupted...or getting ink all over my robes."

"Now I did apologise profusely for that. Oh-" a single yellow petal fluttered down and landed between the two of them. "The rest of the flowers have caught up. Mind your paperwork, Chancellor."

It was quite picturesque, really, the gentle intervention of bright yellow petals, falling soft as feathers onto his desk, onto the Champion. A complete contrast to the dusky blue skin and signature red eyes, but it made the flowers all the more vivid, whereas they may have looked dull against a warmer-skinned person. He even paused in his work to watch, dimly wondering when he had last stopped to admire the beauty of nature; with all his daily tasks, he simply hadn't the time to sit and watch the world go by. But this...this was nice. Better than a standard bouquet of flowers he would have put away somewhere and forgotten about.

"Sorry about that," the Dunmer spoke at last, shaking the last of the petals free from his hair, "I'll tidy up your desk, if you want."

"Someone will do it later," Ocato waved a hand carelessly – and now that the moment was over, returned to his work, returned to his own business-like self without the time to spare, "so was there any other reason for visiting me, other than a apology gift?"

A shrug, "just some company, really."

"Champion..." he told him as kindly as he could. He'd been impatient at first, when the Dark Elf had initially come to him pleading help for Bruma, just as he was with everyone else he didn't strictly need to attend to. But seeing him so often – plus the gratitude he rightly owed him, of course – made him a little gentler, even if the words were the same: "I'm a very busy man, you know that. I don't have time for social calls when there's an Empire to run."

"I didn't necessarily mean to talk," he gave another smile, but it was less cheerful than before – almost melancholy, Ocato noted, "I just like spending time down here. It's nice, quiet. I don't get bothered all the time like I do outside."

"Bothered?" he didn't see why the people of Cyrodil would hassle their saviour. "How so?"

"Not jeered at. Just...interrupted. People running up to congratulate me, asking about Martin, trying to get autographs," he scratched the back of his head sheepishly, "makes me uncomfortable, really. I'm not a celebrity."

"Well you _are_, essentially, Besides, it's better to be recognised for your good deeds than for being a social parasite," Ocato idly examined his quill, which was slightly frayed at the end, and smoothed it between his fingers, "such attention is to be expected. You're their Champion, after all."

"I know, but it gets annoying after a while," he observed Ocato critically before continuing, "you must get that too, right? Everyone treats you as the High Chancellor, but not as you. Doesn't it frustrate you at all?"

In truth, it sometimes did, but he had soon learned that being a political figurehead meant others stopped seeing you as a person. "I try not to think about it," he answered honestly, "I suppose it helps that I have so much work to keep me busy. Being a Chancellor is a full-time occupation."

"At least you have a legitimate excuse to hide away from people," the Dunmer pointed out, but his tone soon softened, "it's why I like being here. There's no-one around to worship the ground I walk on. And I don't really mind you ignoring me to get on with your work either."

"...I'll let you stay a little longer," Ocato conceded at last, though not without some reluctance, "but I have a meeting soon, so you'll need to leave by then. And keep quiet, please, I have work to finish."

He nodded wordlessly, and for a while, that was how it was – with a pensive, petal-covered Champion sat cross-legged on his desk as he worked. It wasn't as distracting as he thought it would be, mostly because the Dark Elf stayed so still and silent he could have been part of the furniture. That was, until he spoke: "Chancellor?"

"Mm? I thought you were going to be quiet."

"Sorry, just one question. I've been meaning to ask you for a while."

"Make it quick, then."

The Champion licked his lips nervously before answering, as though he wasn't quite sure if he should ask, but he did anyway: "Do you think someone can be born – made – for a particular purpose? And they exist only to see that purpose fulfilled?"

Ocato paused. He'd never really thought about it that way before, but... "If the Nine deem it so, then I suppose that could happen, yes," he answered carefully.

The Elf fidgeted; "Then what...what happens when they've fulfilled the purpose?"

_Ah._

Perhaps a lesser person would have missed the implication, or taken longer to realise. But Ocato immediately knew the meaning behind the words: "Do you think you were born just to end the Oblivion crisis?"

The red eyes blinked, startled at how quickly the Chancellor had figured it out, but he soon relaxed. Ocato would not condemn him for his insecurity, he knew. "I wonder sometimes. But I don't think I'm some glorious hero of destiny...I was just doing what anyone else would have done."

"But no-one else could have done what you did," Ocato pointed out, "most people don't have the courage – or skill – to march into Oblivion and fight of armies of Daedra. That's why you're revered as a champion. That's why they're so in awe of you."

"But then, isn't that further proof that I was born to close the Gates?" the Dunmer answered, "plus, I didn't have a personal reason to fight – not vengeance, or a loved one, or anything like that. Which I didn't think really mattered, but everyone seems so surprised when I tell them I didn't have an ulterior motive. So then...then that means I must have been acting on behalf of the Nine, right?"

"Perhaps." Odd, most people disliked hearing that their good deeds had some underlying egocentric motive, but he needed some selfish reason, if only to convince himself he was not simply a means to an end. "But you were acting on your own behalf, really. If Tamriel was destroyed, you would be as well, so it wasn't entirely divine will that guided your actions."

"I suppose...the idea of being a puppet just doesn't sit well with me, that's all," he fidgeted, "But even so, that's what I was born for, isn't it? To save Tamriel from Oblivion," and Ocato couldn't disagree, because no-one else would have faced hell itself, could have found the strength and resolve to go against the mightiest of the Daedric Princes. "But now that it's all over...what do I do? What's my purpose?"

"Well..." heavens, it was meant to be one question, not a philosophy discussion, "you can make your own fate from now on. Though you needn't keep playing the hero, if that's what worries you. Even if you lived innocuously from now on, you would still go down in the history books as-"

"-The Champion of Cyrodil?" he finished with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "I suppose I'll always be remembered, then."

"Of course," the Chancellor agreed, inwardly questioning why the Champion should seem so wistful about this. After all, who wouldn't want to be remembered as a hero forever? Books would be written, songs would be composed, all hailing the name-

Wait...

It suddenly occurred to him that, for all the time he known him, for all the things he'd done from saving Tamriel to falling face-first onto his desk every few days, he didn't actually know the man's name. Why had this never occurred to him before? He didn't remember asking or being told...no, he'd never learned it. He'd always filed him under 'Champion of Cyrodil' or 'Hero of Kvatch'...but never his name, he realised. In fact, who _did_ know his name? Even with everyone praising him on the streets, he'd never heard it mentioned, but then it didn't matter to them. He was just...

_...Their Champion._

And he understood. The mention of wanting to escape the crowd, asking if being the Chancellor frustrated him – because he was just the same. Treated as the hero, only the hero. Not a person, just a figure to be idolised, to the extent that no-one even knew his real name. And this talk of being born for a particular purpose...maybe he himself felt there was nothing more to him than 'the hero'. That he was intended to complete his task and then live a pointless existence, adored by all and known by none.

"-Chancellor?" he heard, and suddenly realised he was being spoken to. The Dunmer had climbed off his desk and was standing to face him; "Ocato. I said I'm going."

He blinked, wondering how long he had been lost in thought. "Already?"

"It's been a while," and sure enough, most of Ocato's paperwork had been finished, "your meeting will be soon, though you might want to tidy the desk up. Will I be seeing you around, Chancellor?"

_That's odd._ Of course he would see Ocato, he launched himself onto his desk every few days or so. "If I can find the time," he responded automatically, unsure what had changed and how he'd missed it.

"Very well." He headed towards the exit then, without a weapon, but light armour still tinkling as he walked. Befitting, really, that he should wear it even after danger had been averted. The look of a hero, a saviour.

But there was so much more to him than that, Ocato realised even as he watched him leave. His crooked smile, his habit of trespassing where he shouldn't, his apparent fondness for falling from high places...the flowers he'd bought, despite it being a gift generally reserved for a loved one, that he'd forgotten to stash in his cuirass and so ruined on the jump down...there was a _person_ there, beyond the battle armour and numerous, nameless titles. Ocato knew that, even if the hero himself didn't, and so he swiftly rose from his seat to follow, catching him at the door. He'd show him, he'd show him-

"Wait," Ocato spoke – he's almost called out another title, but caught himself just in time. And foolish as he felt for asking this _now_, after he'd known the other Mer for so long, it had to be said, if only to prove that someone saw a person, not a figure: "What is your name?"

The Dark Elf turned slightly then, but it was not the hopeful or grateful expression Ocato had wanted to see. The crimson eyes were devoid of happiness, the look of a man who had accepted his fate, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and saddened:

"Champion."

And that was it. He exited without another word, and Ocato was left wondering why that hadn't been the heartfelt moment he'd been expecting. He was a politician, not some naïve, daydreaming citizen, and he should have known that things very rarely go according to plan...but that had been meant to inspire hope, the realisation that someone recognised him as more than an idol. Not to invoke that one word, that grim acceptance of his position, and the knowledge that nothing had changed.

And so it was with an oddly weighted conscience that the High Chancellor turned back to his work – because nothing had changed. Everything was the same. He settled into his seat, picked up his quill, and slowly resumed as though nothing had happened, as though he had never been visited by a Dunmer with more troubles than his smile suggested; and only a desk covered in yellow petals betrayed otherwise.

* * *

Must...resist...urge...to draw...flower scene...

So anyway, if I ever come up with a decent plot, I might just write a continuation of this. There's not enough Ocato stories, and I rather like the mental image of blue and gold skin (shallow reason, I know...but you have to admit, it's lovely to imagine). Of course, it's probably best that I finish Gold, Black, Red first...


End file.
